


Name, Rank, and Intention

by elektratios



Series: St Trinomens [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, St Trinian's (2007 2009), St Trinian's - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Teachers, Anarchy, Berkshire, Boarding School, Canon Rewrite, Chaos, Children, Comedy, Ensemble Cast, Found Family, Gen, Humor, It's not an AU though, Kid Fic, Mayhem, Not Canon Compliant, Plot, Pranks and Practical Jokes, Pre-Relationship, Prequel, School, Teacher Aziraphale, Teacher Crowley, They are still angels and demons, Wiling and Thwarting, and i have so many headcanons so expect lots more stuff, crowley caused st trinians, i guess, i reiterate this is not crack and nor is it an au lmao, im really struggling to tag this i legit dont know what to say lmaoooo, ive been talking about writing this crossover for weeks on tumblr, not crack, obviously, sort of!!!!!!!, this is a prequel i guess
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-21
Updated: 2019-06-22
Packaged: 2020-05-16 03:58:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19310167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elektratios/pseuds/elektratios
Summary: “State your name, rank, and intention,” the childish voice behind him demanded.“What is this? A military interrogation?”





	1. You feeling lucky, spud?

**Author's Note:**

> Okay I'm finally writing these fics, it's been weeks but anyway Good Omens and St. Trinian's exist in the same universe and I will die on this hill! 
> 
> I don't own any of the characters

Aziraphale stared at the manor in front of him. It seemed nice enough, he supposed, the lawns were nicely kept, the road was lined with trees. The place itself was Grade II listed, apparently, although it looked like it had seen better days. It was rather imposing, anyway, as French Renaissance work tended to be, but he supposed that suited its reputation. 

He squinted. 

He could see the traces of green gunge smeared down the façade from one of the upper windows. 

Well. 

No use dilly-dallying when there was work to be done. 

He stepped out from under the porte cochère (where the taxi driver had politely dropped him off, no doubt pleased with the extortionate fee and generous tip she’d earned during the journey from London), and was promptly hit in the face with a barrage of bullets. 

Aziraphale gasped and stumbled backwards, hands flying up to his chest and patting over the entry points in his waistcoat. He promptly fell over his trunk, and landed on the softly sanded drive. 

He groaned.

He never wanted to come to blasted Berkshire. 

All around him the peaceful countryside was suddenly filled with war cries, and when he pushed himself up off the ground he saw at least 20 young children sprinting towards him, some holding up guns and some hefting various pieces of wood and plastic as makeshift shields. He had the sudden thought that they looked rather like a bad roman army re-enactment. 

“Now,” he said, pointing his finger at them, “now, see here. I don’t know _what_ you think you’re all play-“

He tripped over his words and the children surrounded him. Ten of them dove for his trunk and he spun around, urging them away. 

“-what you’re _playing at-!_ ” he desperately continued, but it was no use. 

He felt the tip of a gun press against the small of his back and stiffened, raising his hands automatically. The children were working away at the lock holding his trunk closed. One of them had produced a hairpin from somewhere and was sticking their tongue out in concentration as they worked it inside the padlock. Aziraphale thought that children really shouldn’t know those sorts of tricks. 

“State your name, rank, and intention,” the childish voice behind him demanded. It seemed to have a distinct Lancashire accent. 

Aziraphale raised his eyes to the heavens. He would be having some strong words with Gabriel the next time he dropped in with some ridiculous command. 

“What is this? A military interrogation?” he said, slightly hysterically. 

The gun jabbed into him again and he jumped. He glanced down at his waistcoat, and saw it was covered in the wet fuzz of raw potato. The child with the hairpin whooped as the lock made a click.

“I’m in,” she said, conspiratorially. Aziraphale thought this must all be some great cosmic joke. 

“State your _name,_ your _rank,_ and your _intention!_ ” the voice demanded again. 

Aziraphale faintly heard another voice say “Is he stupid?”

“Aziraphale. I don’t really know what you mean by _rank,_ and my _intention_ is to offer my services here as a teacher!" Aziraphale's voice lowered to a mutter. "Although I'm rather rethinking that now."

He watched helplessly as the children hefted the lid of the trunk open, and immediately rummaged through his belongings, tossing his polished shoes out onto the lawn and curiously leafing through the books. 

“Oh. Oh, please, be careful with those, would you.” he said, fervently hoping they hadn’t any sticky substances on their fingers. 

“What kind of name is Zirefell anyway?” the voice behind him asked. 

“Aziraphale. And it’s _my_ name. I didn’t manage to catch yours.” Aziraphale could hear the frustration bleeding through his voice, and he swiftly turned towards the mystery child behind him so that he didn’t have to watch the desecration of his belongings anymore. 

The owner of the voice was simply another young child like the rest. She had fairly long black hair and was holding a spud gun. All of the children had mock camouflage paint streaked over their cheeks. 

“It doesn’t matter what my name is,” she said fiercely. “You’re the one being interrogated.”

“Isn’t there a teacher around here anywhere?” Aziraphale asked, hoping the mention of a higher authority would have some effect. He should have known better. 

The child raised her eyebrows at him, and the two girls flanking her crossed their arms in unison. 

“…perhaps the Headmistress? Miss…Fritton? She is expecting me and I don’t think she’d be pleased to know I’d been ambushed like this on my arrival.” 

The girl snorted. Aziraphale rather thought that he may have misjudged the whole situation. 

“What do you think, girls? Shall we let him go in?” 

“He won’t even last five minutes here,” one voice piped up. 

“Nah, Bev, he won’t even make it inside.”

“What kind of teacher is he anyway?” another asked. 

“’E’s got a bible in his trunk, look!”

“I ‘aven’t seen one of those since I was at my old Cath’lic school.” 

“Why’d you get kicked out of there again, Amanda?”

“Put a newt in my teacher’s flask. Like in Matilda, ‘cept it weren’t see through so she didn’t know.”

Aziraphale shut his eyes and shook his head. 

“Children, _please._ Can I have some _order_ here!”

Incredibly, the noise died down, and the children looked at him. He stared at the leader and lowered his arms slowly. 

_“Now,”_ he said in his best strict tone of voice as he turned around, “return my books to my trunk if you would be _so kind._ That Bible has been in my possession for forty years and it’s most likely worth more than the most valuable artwork any of you have ever seen.” 

The girl holding it considered it for a minute, and then dropped it back in the trunk. 

“Right. Thank you ever so much.” He turned back to the girl in charge. “Now. I’m going to gather my belongings and attend my meeting with your headmistress.”

“Hold up one second,” said the girl. She was still aiming the spud gun at his belly. “I don’t know who you think you are, but you’re not in charge yet. You’re just some rando.” 

“Right!” a few of the others chimed in. 

Aziraphale pursed his lips. 

The girl smiled. “Let me make a proposal. We’ll let you go, but we keep the trunk.” 

“Absolutely not!”

“Alright,” the girl said, smiling sweetly and stepping forward. The gun pressed into his belly, pushing him backwards. “Let me be clearer. It’s not a request. You take it or you leave it.”

Aziraphale sighed. 

“Alright. Alright, fine.”

The girl smiled. 

“Alright you lot, put ‘is stuff back in the trunk and take it up.” 

Aziraphale felt his face twist in frustration as he watched the children cart his trunk up the steps and into the school. 

The girl lifted the gun up, resting it against her shoulder in a gesture of amity. She stuck out her hand. 

“Anathema Device,” she said.

Aziraphale squinted, and then took her hand gingerly. Her handshake was more confident and self-assured than any adult human he’d ever met. 

“May we get on, Miss Device?” he asked, and she grinned at him, and led the way.


	2. Formalities

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not even the heavenly war came close to the chaos Aziraphale witnessed in the short walk up to Camilla Fritton’s office.

Not even the heavenly war came close to the chaos Aziraphale witnessed in the short walk up to Camilla Fritton’s office. In the space of five minutes he’d seen three spray paint cans, two beheaded suits of armour, a toxic waste sign (!?), six first years hanging in a chain from the foyer banister (his heart had skipped a beat at that), five girls wearing barely more than underwear and _garters,_ and what suspiciously looked like an attempt at a homemade time machine. And that wasn’t even mentioning the gang of girls clad in black clothing who’d lined the hallways and stared at him with soulless eyes as he’d hurried past. 

He was beginning to see why Gabriel had been so insistent on his posting at St Trinian’s. 

It was a relief to finally arrive at the grand wooden door of the Headmistress’s office. It proclaimed ‘Camilla Fritton’ in inlaid gold, and Aziraphale breathed a sigh of relief at the more familiar, professional setting. 

Anathema knocked on the door enthusiastically (rather too enthusiastically, in Aziraphale’s opinion, and he would almost have been inclined to call it rude), and cheery voice sing-songed ‘Come in!’ from beyond the door.

Aziraphale pushed it open. The room was large, with a high sweeping ceiling and expansive windows lighting it up and showing the vast grounds of the property. There were two worn brown three-seater sofas in the centre of the room, presumably for more casual guests, and a series of artworks resting on easels lining the walls. Aziraphale couldn’t see what they depicted from the doorway, but he suspected that perhaps the painter had to face towards the sofas for a reason. He resolved not to think about what exactly the artist had been painting. Although it was rather messy and paperwork and knickknacks littered every corner, Aziraphale appreciated the Renaissance decoration, the luxurious velvet drapery lining the walls and the ornate fireplace which looked as if it hadn’t actually been used in over fifty years, but beautifully set the room off. His eyes swept over to the large table in the corner, where he met the eyes of one Headmistress Camilla Fritton. 

“Yes?” she asked, looking up at him over the top of a sheaf of paper, which considering the number of half-finished bottles of spirits surrounded it, Aziraphale supposed was either incredibly important, or not important at all. 

“Ah. Yes. You must be Miss Fritton? I’m Aziraphale, or, ah, Mr Fell if you’d prefer.” He stepped into the room and smiled. 

Aziraphale noticed that Anathema didn’t leave, but instead shut the door and leaned against it. He didn’t consider himself the paranoid sort, but he couldn’t help but notice she was effectively blocking the only exit. 

“Ah, yes, of course! Mr Fell!” Miss Fritton rose from her desk and stubbed her cigarette out in the overflowing ashtray on a side table. She came around the table and towards him.

Aziraphale held out a hand for her to shake, but she crowded right in and grasped his biceps firmly, holding him at arm’s length and looking at him with a wide smile. 

“Oh. Um...” he stuttered. 

“Yes. I think you’ll do nicely,” she decided, and released him. “Come, come!” 

She sat down on the sofa and patted the seat next to her. Aziraphale gingerly settled as close to the edge as he could get. 

“Don’t just stand there, Anathema, come along and sit with us. Now, Mr Fell,” she began, withdrawing another cigarette from her pocket and lighting up. Her eyebrows raised as she looked at him. “I’m sure you know all about St. Trinian’s and our educational ethos?” 

Aziraphale smiled awkwardly. “Oh, well. It certainly seems like a very…vibrant environment. But I my assignment here was rather abrupt and I haven’t had the time to do any considerable research.”

“Mm,” Miss Fritton said in response. She leaned in conspiratorially and scrunched her nose up in delight. “Well then. You’ll just have to learn on the job.” 

Aziraphale tilted his head in agreement, although he wasn’t so sure this was a good thing.

“Oh, now. Where are my manners, I haven’t offered you a drink!” Miss Fritton got up and bustled towards her desk again to fetch one of the spirits. 

“Oh no, Miss Fritton-“

“Call me Camilla. We don’t abide by many formalities in this school. We like to foster a close relationship with our students and colleagues.”

Aziraphale decided not to touch that.

“Camilla,” he corrected, “I’d rather have a clear head for my first day here. I have a feeling there might be a bit of adjustment required. You could say this isn’t exactly like any of my previous assignments.”

Camilla settled back in next to him with a tumbler of scotch. “Oh I wouldn’t worry too much about it.” She looked at him and he twitched under her analytical gaze. “Yes, I think you’ll settle in rather nicely here.” She cleared her throat. “Now. Which position was it you applied for?” 

Aziraphale blinked at her. She absent-mindedly adjusted the shawl that was draped around her shoulders and didn’t notice his bewilderment. 

“English,” he stated. He paused for a moment. “I have considerable knowledge of the classic authors and I, well, I’m a bit of a collector you understand, in fact I think I must have well over a thousand books in my collection, but they’re all in Soho, in storage-“ 

“Mmm,” Camilla said again, cutting into his babble. He stopped talking, noticing he’d gotten lost in his head as he was wont to do, but Camilla was still smiling at him, and he thought that at another time she would probably have happily listened to him ramble. 

“We _already_ have an English teacher, actually, so I’m not sure why you’re here.” Camilla was gesturing as she spoke, and she got to her feet and began to drift around the room absently. “We have other teaching positions that we’ve been advertising, like Religious Studies for example. Our last teacher of religion took a sudden sabbatical to Greenland of all places. I haven’t seen him since.”

Aziraphale sighed internally. _Religious Studies._ He began composing his objections to Gabriel in his head. 

“I’m more than qualified to teach Religious Studies,” he admitted. 

“Oh!” She threw her arms up in the air as if to say _Well then, what are we standing here discussing it for!?_

“Well then,” she said, “what are we standing around here discussing it for!?” 

Camilla knocked back her drink and urged Aziraphale up from his seat and towards the door. 

“Come along, Anathema. You may as well come with us and then you can show Mr Fell to his classroom.” 

“Excuse me,” Aziraphale asked, “where are we going before that?” 

“Staff room,” Camilla said. The office door closed behind her with a resolute thump. “I’m sure you’re dying to meet the rest of the teachers.”


	3. Fresh Meat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “And you’ve come to what? Thwart a bunch of schoolgirls?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was more Crowley and Aziraphale focussed than I anticipated but whatever!

The first thing Aziraphale noticed when he entered the staff room was the thick blanket of smoke that tried its best to suffocate him to an early discorporation. He hadn’t been so engulfed in the gross tang of tobacco since his old gentleman’s club had finally closed its doors, but even then, at least that was quality imported fare. 

Camilla and Aziraphale’s arrival was only noticed by one inhabitant of the room. She was dressed in a rather outdated matron's outfit, and she bustled towards him (cigarette in tow) and immediately ushered him towards the bar. (1)

(1: If it could be called a bar, as it was so well stocked that even the most lucrative public house would have given a year’s profit to obtain it. In fact, the more Aziraphale looked around, the more he thought the staff room resembled a sports bar, or perhaps one of those pubs with the same few regulars which fancies itself a bit upscale by offering both a dart board and a pool table. 

“Welcome. Welcome,” the matron said enthusiastically, and began pouring spirits into two tall cocktail glasses. “Now, tell me your name and we’ll have a natter.”

“Oh. Ah. Actually I’m not entirely sure that vodka and vermouth are meant to be mixed together-“

“Oh, yes. It’s my own creation. Fantastic stuff really. A couple of these in the morning and you’ll get through a teaching day no problem.” 

Aziraphale swallowed, and when the matron pushed the glass into his hand he looked at it as if it would spontaneously discorporate him on the spot. Anathema had taken up a similar position against the door as she had in Camilla’s office, and when Aziraphale glanced at her she smiled conspiratorially. He rather suspected they might get on. 

The third thing Aziraphale noticed was the rest of the teachers: a short man in glasses, a lady in horse riding gear, and a woman with impossibly straight black hair sat at one table jotting down numbers. There was at least one person fast asleep on a sofa with tea dripping from a mug and soaking into their trousers. Five people crowded around a small circular table stacked with notes and poker chips. Camilla had fetched herself a drink and had sat down with the matron on an empty sofa. She didn’t seem to care that all of her staff were slacking or gambling. Aziraphale rather thought this was the kind of school where the teachers probably _did_ sleep in their classrooms. 

The matron patted the last seat on the sofa, but before Aziraphale could join her Camilla flapped her hands and stood up. 

“Oh. Attention everyone! I’d like to welcome our new member of staff!” 

“Ah! Fresh meat!”

The exclamation had come from the poker table. No-one else had so much as stirred. The person on the sofa slept on. The tea was slowly spreading towards their crotch. The black-haired woman tapped on her cigarette and regarded him over her glasses while the short man and the horse-rider bickered with each other. 

“Yes, well,” Camilla said, with humour, “don’t go too hard on this one, I rather like him.” 

Aziraphale blushed. He didn’t like the feeling of being patronised, but he suspected that he was already too far under Camilla’s wing. 

“Oh, come on, don’t spoil my fun!” the man protested, swinging himself out of his seat. There was something familiar about his voice. Aziraphale turned to look just as the man righted himself and leaned back against the table. 

Crowley. 

Crowley adjusted his sunglasses and peered at Aziraphale. “Oh… _really?_ ” he whined. “You’ve got to be joking.”

Aziraphale huffed and haughtily replied, “Of course it’s you Crowley, I should have known. Wherever there’s mayhem you’re never far behind.”

“And you’ve come to, what? Thwart a bunch of schoolgirls?” 

“Well perhaps I have! I can’t imagine they’re flourishing under _your_ devilish influence!” 

Aziraphale crossed his arms. He was going for ‘stern’ but instead gave the impression of a rather endearing teddy bear. 

“What do you even do here anyway?” He noticed his voice sounded unbearably petulant, but decided it was better than revealing how his heart had leapt at the sight of Crowley. 

“He’s a teacher,” Camilla said, raising her eyebrows over her glass. She seemed utterly fascinated by the exchange. “May I ask how you two know each other?” 

Aziraphale couldn’t get any words out. “Oh, erm…” he said eloquently. 

He looked at Crowley desperately. Camilla looked at Crowley too. 

“Ahh… _well_ …er….” Crowley trailed off. 

“Oh, _I see,_ ” Camilla replied in a lascivious tone and with a quick wink at Aziraphale. 

Aziraphale blushed fiercely, but he didn’t respond. He didn’t suppose the truth would go over so well. 

“Well, seeing as you know each other so well, perhaps Anthony could help you settle in.” 

Crowley smirked and raised his eyebrows. Aziraphale was glad he couldn’t see his eyes behind the dark sunglasses. 

“Oh, yes, _fine,_ ” he huffed. 

Crowley pushed himself away from the table, swaggered over, and clinked his wine glass against Aziraphale’s nuclear cocktail. 

“Cheers, Angel.”

Neither of them noticed Camilla and the matron mouthing _‘Angel!?’_ at each other in delight. 

Aziraphale gave Crowley a quick once over. He was still wearing the same clothes Aziraphale had last seen him in a couple of decades before, which was out of character. 

“I thought you’d have shaved that damnable moustache off by now, Crowley,” he grumbled. “And for that matter you need a haircut. It does nothing for you.” 

“Oh, you’re preaching about style now, Angel?” 

Aziraphale might not have been able to see Crowley’s eyes, but he knew they were giving him a meaningful once over. He defiantly adjusted his bowtie. 

“Sit down, you two,” insisted Camilla. Aziraphale and Crowley settled down on the sofa opposite. 

Now,” she began. “We’ll put you to work first thing tomorrow morning, Aziraphale.” 

“Excuse me,” Crowley jumped in, leaning forward. The sofa was slightly too low to the ground for his long legs and they were bent rather awkwardly. “What exactly is Aziraphale teaching?”

Aziraphale’s heart sank. “Religious Studies,” he admitted. 

Crowley’s face stretched in absolute glee. _“Religious Studies?”_ he repeated. He could barely keep the elation out of his voice. _“Really?_ You’re going to, what? Teach all the eleven year olds the Book of Revelation? The intricacies of God’s Ineffable Plan?” 

“Well what do _you_ teach?” Aziraphale shot back, embarrassed and desperate to change the topic. Crowley always ruffled his feathers. 

“English,” Crowley said, in the tone of voice of someone who knows he’s about to cause some mischief. 

_“English?”_ Aziraphale repeated, “Crowley, you barely read!” 

“Ah, but you don’t get it, Angel,” Crowley was shaking his head and he gulped down some of his wine. Aziraphale ignored the arm he stretched across the back of the sofa. “Plays are meant to be _performed_ , not read.”

“Oh no. Please don’t tell me-“

“After all, the great Bard deserves that much, doesn’t he?”

“Oh, Lord help me,” Aziraphale whined. First potato juice all over his clothes, and now Crowley was teaching Shakespeare to troublesome teenagers. Truly, he thought, this _must_ be outside of his jurisdiction. 

“We’re doing Hamlet tomorrow,” Crowley gleefully continued. “Want to drop in?” 

Aziraphale had his face in his hands. “Truly, this must be some form of divine punishment,” he whimpered. And really, he wasn’t far off the mark, since the orders _had_ come from Gabriel, after all. 

Suddenly the sofa dipped down next to him, and he looked up into Anathema’s sparkling bright eyes. 

“None of this matters,” she stated. “How are you going to teach us Religious Studies without your books?” 

Aziraphale glared at her, and she smiled winningly in response. He was beginning to understand that it was probably better to embrace the students’ authority at St Trinian’s. 

“You came here without any books, Angel? That’s not like you.” 

“He came here with several books actually,” Anathema corrected, “but lost them in battle.” 

“Ah!” Crowley said. He placed his empty wine glass on the table. Aziraphale considered the nuclear cocktail in front of him, which he’d yet to sample. He took a couple of tentative sips. 

“Shoes too, and his spare waistcoat. Although really Aziraphale you should buy some new clothes. They look like they’re gonna fall apart.” 

Camilla tutted theatrically. “I hope that’s not what you’ll be calling him in class tomorrow morning, Anathema.” 

“Mr Fell.” Anathema corrected. 

Crowley snorted. “Alright. Tell you what, you give _Mr Fell_ his belongings, and I’ll let you play Hamlet.”

Anathema raised her eyebrows. 

Crowley grinned. “25% of my winnings.” He nodded at the poker table. 

“40.”

“30.”

“Deal,” Anathema said, and stuck out her hand. Aziraphale had to lean back as Crowley stretched across him to shake it.

Anathema slid back off the sofa. “If Mr Crowley is going to help Mr Fell settle in, I might as well get on, Miss Fritton.”

“Hmmm. What?” Camilla turned around, roused from the intense, whispered conversation she was having with the matron, “Yes, yes, off you go.” 

Aziraphale watched Anathema leave. She didn’t turn back. 

“I suppose I ought to say thank you?” he said, reluctantly. 

“I wouldn’t. Whatever they’ve done to your stuff doesn’t bear thinking about,” Crowley said.

Aziraphale sighed, and tried not to think about it.

Crowley sprang up from the sofa. 

“Come on then, Angel. I’ll show you around.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oops, didn't I mention that St Trinomens!Crowley is definitely 70s-disco-pervstache!Crowley?? My bad ;)

**Author's Note:**

> St Trinomens is real!
> 
> I love comments ;) (even if they're to tell me this fic is ridiculous)
> 
> you can find me on tumblr at @folieassdeux (and if you do, check out my #st trinomens tag)


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